


Don't Let Me Down

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nudity, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-27
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has set himself to auto-destruct and Sam is struggling not to kill his brother when they're snowed in. While stuck in a cabin, they find peace in an old promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Harsh disciplinary spanking (spanking agreement between consenting adults)
> 
> Spoilers: Through early Season 7 up to _The Mentalist_ , but mostly just for the _The Girl Next Door_
> 
> Author's Note: Written for verucasalt123's request of disciplinary Sam/Dean spanking with a belt, with nice aftercare for spanking_world's Holiday Exchange. This is only Sam/Dean in the spanking pairing, not the sexual sense.

It was November in Nebraska. Sam’s hands were buried deep in his coat pockets and the tip of his nose tingled. It still felt warmer standing alone out here in the frigid night than it had back in the cabin with his brother.

Smoke from the old cabin’s chimney hung in the air. Dean was keeping the fire well fed. Sam doubted that it had anything to do with heat. Dean was used to the cold, but tending a fire was something to do and that was what Dean did. He sought out distractions to force everything else out. To force Sam out.

It was three thirty in the morning. Dean still wasn’t sleeping. He still looked like hell and he still wouldn’t talk about it.

Sam was having a hard time making a case for why he should. It wasn’t as if Sam was sleeping any better. That was how he knew Dean wasn't sleeping, after all. He’d spent the last several nights lying in the dark listening to his brother pace the room while pickling his liver.

When he’d first found out that Dean had gone back for Amy, just the sight of his brother had made him sick and angry enough he could barely breathe. Two weeks later, he didn’t know what he felt anymore.

He’d thought things would get better, with them back together and the secret out, but it wasn’t getting better, not for either of them.

Sam kicked a pebble towards the river’s edge. It clanked down the icy path before getting caught by a larger stone. He ran his hand through his bangs, brushing off the snow before he shivered and stuffed his hand back in his pocket.

His fingers ached. He’d been clutching his fist for the better part of the night trying not to punch Dean, who had all but literally been begging for it.

Stuck in the cabin, the dam had burst. Sam’s throat was raw from shouting. He’d thought it had been a fight, but looking back in the stillness, he realized that Dean had tricked him once again.

Dean had barely said anything at all, only enough to bring everything Sam had pushed down back to the surface. Maybe in his own weird way, Dean was trying to help or punish himself. Sam wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know if there was a difference in Dean’s eyes.

But Sam had enough rage and confusion and despair without Dean adding fuel to the fire and Dean already hated himself enough for them both. The spiteful part of Sam was glad for that.

His brother had gone behind his back, killed his friend and lied about it to his face for weeks. Dean should feel like crap and Sam shouldn’t care, but all he wanted was to talk to his brother and he couldn’t, not even when Dean was standing right in front of him.

Instead of talking, Dean had kept pushing until Sam had shoved him back into the termite-infested wood paneling and there Dean had stood silently daring Sam to take a swing. Sam had managed to pull himself together enough to turn around and walk out the door.

He’d tried not to read too much into the devastation that had washed over Dean’s features. When he’d heard glass shatter behind him, he’d hoped it was only Dean throwing a beer bottle, but hadn’t been in his right mind enough to check.

Sam glanced back towards the cabin. It was set away from the river, but close enough that he could vaguely see Dean’s silhouette framed in the window.

Dean disappeared from view and the cabin’s door opened a few moments later. Sam stood still against the tree, back to the cabin, watching the scattered light reflect off the flowing water.

He’d expected to hear Dean call him to come in, but he only heard the distant crunch of Dean’s boots in the snow. It was quiet again before the echoing impact of a heavy maul splitting wood.

Sam sighed. They didn’t need anymore firewood. There was at least a cord of wood already dried and stacked on the porch and it wasn’t as if they were staying. They’d been on their way back to Rufus’s cabin when they’d found themselves stuck in the snow in a cramped Ford Tempo that had been having enough trouble on clear roads.

Driving had used to be Dean’s time to decompress, but now without the Impala, it only made him tenser. Dean didn’t even talk about the Impala anymore. He didn’t talk about much of anything. The silence had only given Sam more time to think.

He wanted to hate Dean, but he didn’t. He only hated what he’d done and the more he thought about it, he wasn’t even surprised that Dean had. He couldn't even really make himself blame Dean for his inability to see anything other than black and white.

It was how they had been raised, both of them, but Dad hadn't started indoctrinating Sam until he’d been old enough to start making up his own mind. Things had been different for Dean. Sam understood that now so he wasn't surprised. He wasn't even sure he could really be angry anymore.

He listened to the steady fall of the axe and watched the snow burying his boots. The pace of the strikes was increasing. Dean would wear himself out soon. Maybe he’d actually get some sleep and they could pretend everything was fine until tomorrow night.

It wasn’t okay. Sam couldn’t trust his brother, but not for the reasons Dean thought. It wasn’t what Dean had done or the lies. It was that Sam couldn’t trust Dean to take care of himself.

He pushed off the tree and looked back towards the chopping of wood that still hadn’t let up. Sam again shook off the snow that was melting into his hair and followed his path back to the cabin. By now, his previous footprints in the snow had begun to fill in.

Sam prayed to whoever was left up in heaven for the snow to stop. If it kept up like this, they wouldn’t be going anywhere tomorrow either. He doubted they could survive another night here together. He wasn’t sure how they were going to make it through what was left of this one.

He stopped at the back corner of the cabin when he saw Dean. His brother was standing out in the chilled night in a t-shirt. Even in the low light, Sam could see that the back of Dean’s shirt was soaked with sweat and melted snow.

Sam could hear Dean’s panted breaths in between the fall of the splitting maul. He was throwing all his weight into the action of chopping even as he was so exhausted he was having trouble lifting the axe. He wasn’t stacking the wood, just chopping it into kindling and letting it pile around his feet.

Dean kicked it out of the way and paced over to grab another chunk of log. Sam cleared his throat, but Dean didn’t seem to hear. He just positioned the new piece of wood onto the splitting stump and picked up the axe again.

“Dean, stop.”

Dean spun around, axe still gripped in his hands and reared back over his shoulder. Sam didn’t move closer. He could tell by the defensive look in Dean’s eyes that he was ready to take a swing.

When Dean’s eyes focused, his brow furrowed. “Sam?” Dean dropped the axe, letting it disappear forgotten into the snow. He took a couple steps towards Sam, staring before turning to look out over the hill. “What? You couldn’t find another car?”

Dean was breathing so hard his words were difficult to understand. Sam almost thought he could hear Dean’s teeth chattering and he could certainly see him shaking. Sam was bundled beneath several layers and the cold was barely tolerable. Dean had to be freezing despite the exertion.

“What’re you talking about?” Sam asked. “Come on, you gotta get inside.”

He closed the distance between them and grasped Dean’s arm. His skin was slick, but cool to the touch.

Dean jerked away, looking more confused than indignant. He jammed his hands in his worn jean pockets as if it would help to warm him. Sam wanted to offer him his jacket, but knew he’d get decked for it.

“Why’d you come back?” Dean asked.

“Did you think I was gonna stand out here all night?” Sam grabbed Dean again when he only stood there shivering. This time, he gripped hard enough to tug Dean after him. “Seriously, Dean.”

Dean shoved him weakly, but at least he was moving his feet. He took up his place walking beside Sam as they shuffled through the snow back around to the front of the cabin.

“I thought you...” Dean glanced to Sam before focusing his gaze ahead. “Never mind.”

Sam halted, turning to face his brother. “You thought I what?” He didn’t need to hear the answer because it was clear in the dark green eyes that wouldn’t meet his. “You thought I left again.”

Dean shrugged. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”

As usual, there was no consistency between the expression on Dean’s face and the words leaving his mouth. He pushed ahead and either forgot that the porch had steps or just didn’t lift his foot high enough to clear the first one. His boot caught in the gap and he fell forward, banging his knees on the icy wood.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean hissed.

He slammed his fist onto the snow dusted edge of the porch, huffing as he remained there on all fours as if he was deciding what to do. Sam was there in the next moment, helping Dean to his feet.

His brother stumbled forward without a word. He brushed the snow from his pants, stomped his boots at the doormat and shoved open the cabin door with his shoulder. Glass crunched beneath his feet as he walked in.

Dean waved vaguely in the direction of the mess on the floor. “Careful. A bottle fell. Damn place must be haunted.”

Sam stepped over the brown glass shards. As he closed the door behind him, he glanced to the peeling strip of wallpaper beside the door stained with splattered beer from where the bottle had shattered against it. He gritted his teeth, struggling to shake off how easily the lie had slipped from Dean’s lips.

It was the deception, Dean looking him in the face and telling him he’d left Amy alone, which had cut so deeply, but even that was still just Dean. They lied for a living. Dad had taught them that, too, and Sam had wondered for a long time whether or not Dean really even understood the difference or where those lies should end.

Dean had been willing to die to keep Sam from the truth. He’d tried to throw his life away for nothing, just some damn secret and Sam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lose his brother.

“Why were you outside without a jacket?”

It might not be odd for some, but Dean rarely lounged around a heated motel room wearing less than two layers. He sure didn’t run around in the snow stripped down to a t-shirt unless he was planning on something stupid.

Dean kept his back to Sam as he walked to the bed. “I was hot, Grandma.” He grabbed his flannel and tugged it on over his wet shirt, still shaking as he lifted a flask to his lips. “So, seriously. What changed your mind?”

“Dean, I never left. I just needed some air.”

“Yeah, sure. Building snow angels in the middle of the night in the frickin arctic. Awesome.”

Dean sagged down to sit on the edge of the bed. He tipped back the flask again before tossing it aside without closing the top. He only looked more disgruntled, but at least he was out of liquor.

“Did you want Jo to kill you?” Sam asked.

Dean buried his head in his hands, rubbing his bloodshot eyes before quirking a brow at Sam. “What?”

“You heard me. When Osiris sentenced you, did you want to die?”

“Oh, God,” Dean groaned. “Not that again.”

Dean shook the snow from his hair onto the hardwood floor to join the melting pile around his boots. A few stray water droplets continued to drip from his mused hair. He wiped them away from his bright pink cheeks as his gaze settled on the fireplace.

“Just answer the question.”

“No! Of course not. Come on, Sam, give me some damn credit here.”

“Okay, fine. But what am I supposed think?” Sam asked. “You thought I left and your answer was to shoot for alcohol poisoning and hypothermia.”

Dean narrowed his eyes on Sam. “First off, I’m not even drunk and I was seriously hot. I just needed to blow off some steam and no demons strolled by volunteering to help out so—”

“So you thought you’d try to beat yourself into exhaustion?”

“Will you just drop it already? If I wanted to kill myself I know a hundred and one better ways to do it. Some bastard would just drag me back topside, anyway. I’m fine.”

“That’s crap, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, whatever. Did you come back to beat my ass, or just to whine about my lifestyle choices?”

Sam stood with the fire warming his back. The flickering glow was the only light in the small cabin. It was enough to highlight the weariness in Dean’s face and the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Dean was at least right that the cabin was warm with the fire burning. Sam shrugged out of his jacket. He looped it over the back of the kitchenette chair on his way to the closet to grab a broom and dustpan.

“I didn’t order maid service,” Dean said.

Sam gripped the broom handle tighter at the casual tone of Dean’s voice. Dean was resetting again. He was pretending as if nothing was wrong after Sam had just found him outside in a daze, too drunk to walk straight and half frozen. If Sam hadn’t come back, Dean could have collapsed and died from exposure before regaining consciousness.

Sam focused his attention on sweeping as he felt the frustration again bubbling up inside of him. The shards of glass clanked in the metal trash as he emptied the dust pan. He took in a breath and turned back to Dean, who had dug another whiskey bottle out of somewhere while Sam hadn’t been looking.

“Dean, you’ve had enough,” Sam said.

“I also didn’t order an AA sponsor.” Dean looked past him as he unscrewed the cap from the bottle. “Besides, I’m still conscious so obviously not.”

Dean would never explain what he was feeling. Sam always had to guess, creating his own interpretation of what was happening in his brother’s head. He wasn’t sure if Dean even knew.

“Is this still about what you did to Amy?” Sam asked.

“You tell me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The longer he watched Dean, the clearer he could see the anxiety in his eyes. Dean was on edge like he was waiting for the ground to drop out from beneath them. He chewed on his chapped lower lip before standing.

“You’re pissed,” Dean said. He walked past Sam and set the untouched whiskey bottle aside on the counter. “I’m not even saying you shouldn’t be. I screwed up. I mean, killing Amy, that had to be done...”

Sam clenched his jaw. “That wasn’t your call.”

“Yeah, I know. I should’ve talked to you. I just thought...”

“I’m not crazy, Dean.”

“No one’s saying you are.” Dean rubbed the back of his head. “But this crap between us...I just need it to be over.”

“It’s not that easy. I can’t just forget what you did.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Dean’s hands were unsteady as he bent forward to loosen the laces of his boots. He toed them off before he turned back to Sam. “I’m just asking you to deal with it.”

“I’m trying, but some days I’m having trouble just looking at you.”

Dean nodded. “I can’t change what I did.” He slipped his flannel back off, stripping down to just the wet t-shirt. “Honestly? I’m not even saying I would if I could. I just don’t know, but I do know that sorry’s not enough for either of us.”

Dean unhooked his belt buckle, sliding the leather from the loops. He doubled it over, squeezing it in his fist before holding it out to Sam.

When Sam only stared at it, Dean grabbed his hand and shoved the belt into his palm. Dean took an uneasy breath as he stepped back. He walked over to stoke the fire before returning to the bed and unbuttoning his pants. He stood deathly still before pushing the jeans off and stepping out of them.

“Dean...”

“Just shut up.” He tossed the pants onto the bed with his flannel. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask and you haven’t. So I thought...”

Sam stepped closer and set his hand on Dean’s shoulder. It was still wet and trembling. “That’s why you thought I was leaving. Because I haven’t asked for your belt?”

“That was the deal. Sam, I can’t keep wondering whether or not you’re gonna walk back in that door. If Satan walked you into a bus or if you’re just sick of my damn face and don’t wanna come back.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulder and Dean closed his eyes, his head leaning so his cheek brushed against Sam’s hand. He was different like this, when he was exposed, and Sam hated thinking it was a good thing, but it was the only time Dean really let him in.

Sam hated Dad for that. He’d grown up watching Dad lay lessons into Dean’s skin and feeling Dean’s interpretation beaten into his own ass. It wasn’t long after Dad’s death that Dean had asked him to whip him in one of the most awkward moments he’d ever shared with his brother, which was saying something given their lifestyle.

He’d thought it was ludicrous, just Dean drunk babbling, but then he’d met his brother’s eyes and it was like he’d seen Dean for the first time. There’d been no guards or games, only an earnest request fueled by raw desperation and, afterwards, Dean had been better.

They’d continued on, exchanging the favor until Dean had gone to hell. He’d come back different and what he’d asked for when he’d returned was far more than Sam had been willing to do.

Eventually, they’d fallen back into old patterns until Castiel was regularly hanging around. Dean had said he didn’t want an angel popping in on him getting his ass beat and Sam had used it as leverage to make Dean think twice. Now Castiel was gone so apparently Dean thought things were normal again, but they weren’t, not for Sam.

He hadn’t touched Dean like that, not since the Cage. Not since what Lucifer had made him do to his brother. He still remembered the feel of Dean’s bones crunching beneath his fists. That’s why it didn’t matter how much Dean goaded him. He couldn’t hit him.

“I’m not leaving,” Sam said. “But it’s been years. After everything...I didn’t think you’d want me to. Not with Lucifer...”

Dean turned around to look at him. “He’s not really here, Sam.”

“I know, but he...”

“Are you seeing him now?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head.

“I trust you, Sammy.”

Dean didn’t wait for Sam to agree. He only assured that Sam couldn’t say no by pushing down his boxers. He kicked them off and bent forward, spreading his legs and bracing his hands over the comforter.

He wasn’t just exposing himself visually or physically, but emotionally to the possibility of a rejection they both knew he couldn’t take. His head was tucked to his chest and Sam couldn’t see his face, but the unease showed in the tensed lines of his muscles and the way his fingers clutched the covers.

He was still the same man, Sam’s big brother — the cocky, annoying jerk who had challenged Death to recover his soul, who had gone to hell for him. He was the lethal hunter, who had murdered his friend and tried to sacrifice everything to cover it up. He was everything Sam had ever had or ever would and despite all his bulk and bravado, he looked vulnerable now, stripped down in every possible way.

This was the Dean who trusted him, not only not to hurt him more than he had to, but with his pride and respect. This was the Dean who felt safe to let go. Sam hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him.

Dean’s arms were shaking. It was slight, but visible and reminded Sam that he’d found Dean working himself to exhaustion. Dean jerked when Sam set his hand on his back.

“Dean, just lie down on the bed.”

Dean hesitated only a moment before crawling forward onto the mattress. While Sam had expected Dean to lie down, he shouldn’t have been surprised that even in this state, Dean clung to his stubbornness.

He laid his chest over the mattress, his shoulders bearing his weight for his arms, which he folded beneath his head. His knees remained beneath him, keeping his ass raised and taut to feel the full impact of every stroke.

Sam shook his head. Dean was solid, lean muscle. It wasn’t as if he had any padding back there anyway.

Dean’s face was expressionless, but his tired eyes anxious as he stared towards the window. Sam followed his gaze to the drifting snow beyond the reflection of the fire’s light. He was suddenly thankful to see the accumulation on the window’s ledge. Maybe being stuck here another day could do them some good.

“You just gonna stand there all night admiring my fine ass?”

The words were casual, but Dean’s voice was tight. Sam knew how much it took for Dean to surrender himself like this — almost as much as it took for Sam to raise the belt.

It was an easy thing to think when he was angry and Dean was being a jerk running his mouth, but much harder to do when Dean was quietly submitting. Sam had to look past the supplicant posture, thinking back to his brother at Osiris’s trial, more afraid of the truth than his own death.

Sam brought the belt down. An angry line of red rose to color Dean’s pale skin. Dean barely flinched.

They’d both been to hell. Nothing Sam could do with a belt would ever touch the pain Dean had known. The snap of the leather, was only one more thing to focus Dean’s attention and Sam kept the strokes coming. He didn’t have Dad’s practiced precision and couldn’t make himself use Dean’s force, but he knew how to make the licks count.

The belt’s strap only bit harder into Dean’s flesh when Sam remembered Amy killing her own mom to save him. Dean’s ‘no problem’ after he'd thanked him for not killing her, rang through his head.

Dean grunted, pulling Sam back to the cabin. The formerly white skin had flushed to deep pink, streaked with darker stripes. Sam wiped the moisture from his cheeks as he walked around to the other side of the bed. Dean shifted to better brace himself, but kept his rear raised.

Sam’s blurry gaze fell on the whiskey bottle. He wiped his eyes again before returning his full grip to the belt with the visual of Dean falling on the steps, too tired or out of it to pick himself up. The leather cracked down, laying strokes in quick succession over already tender skin.

A stroke fell lower than Sam intended, lashing hard over the back of Dean’s thigh. Dean jerked and his legs slipped from beneath him. He didn’t try to get back up, but wriggled into the position Sam had originally intended him to be in, lying face down on the bed.

“Keep going,” Dean muttered, teeth gritted, hands fisting the covers.

But the belt had already slipped from Sam’s sweaty hands and he couldn’t pick it up again. He stepped over it to join his brother, sitting on the side of the bed beside him.

“No. It’s enough, Dean,” Sam said quietly. “We’ve been through enough.”

Dean made a soft, choked sound and buried his face into the blankets. Sam rested his hand on his own thighs as he watched Dean, squirming uncomfortably over the covers. He listened to Dean’s clipped breaths as his eyes wandered down his backside.

The stripes laid over the fiery skin were already darkening. He was thankful he’d slipped up when he had. It had been hard to see what he was doing by the fire’s light. Dean never reacted as much as he should and he’d never tell Sam to stop.

Dean seemed to know Sam was looking at him. He curled onto his side facing him. His head came up enough to reveal his matted eyelashes and wet, flushed cheeks. He didn’t open his eyes and, huddled there, he looked fragile as porcelain. Sam couldn’t believe this was the man he’d been trying so hard to hate.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam said as he pulled up on the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt.

The thing was grungy and still wet and Dean didn’t need to be sleeping in it. Modesty wasn’t exactly a concern right now and while Dean didn’t seem to get what Sam was doing, he didn’t argue either. He pushed off the bed just enough for Sam to peel up the shirt and pull it over his head then plopped back down against the pillow.

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” Dean whispered. He didn’t fully open his eyes, but his head was turned in Sam’s general direction. “I didn’t have a right. It’s just after Madison...I’d promised myself you’d never have to do that again. Man, you got enough going on. You sure as hell don’t need my crap on top of that.”

Sam’s throat tightened further as he looked back at his brother. It was too much for him to think about, but he knew one thing for sure. “I’m okay, Dean. We’re gonna be okay.”

They were the only word he could force out before he had to clear his throat. He walked over to the other side of the bed and pulled back the blankets. He patted Dean’s shoulder.

His brother opened his eyes and glanced around before seeing what Sam wanted and nodding. Sam helped him scoot over. Dean turned onto his back, grimacing as his rear sunk into the old mattress springs. Sam grasped his shoulder and directed Dean to return to lying on his side before tucking the blankets over him.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked over Dean, whose eyes were still closed, the tension gone from his features. Sam didn’t know if he’d done the right thing, but he knew it was what Dean had needed. Maybe what they both had.

He left Dean's side and slipped out of the cabin. The wind chill hit him like a brick wall. He quickly pulled the door closed behind him.

The snow was piling up over the steps and still falling steadily. The car was almost completely hidden beneath a blanket of white. Sam wrapped his arms around himself as he stared out towards the river and let the muffled silence of the snow swallow him.

Here, there was only them. After weeks of wanting as much distance between him and his brother as possible, he found himself wishing that things could just stay like this. He prayed the snow never melted.

Another chill ran through him and he hustled over to the wood pile, stacked as many pieces as he could fit in his arms and headed back inside. Dean was still lying on the bed, but his eyes were opened and he’d propped his head up on his elbow. He looked worried, but relief quickly settled back over his face.

“I told you, Dean. I’m not leaving. I just want you to take care of yourself and until you do, I’m gonna do it for you.”

“I’m not the one with the devil dancing in my head.”

“Like you said, he’s not here.”

Sam realized that was why it was so quiet. When neither of them was talking, there was only the crackle of fire and Dean rustling on the bed.

Sam dropped the wood onto the stone beside the fireplace and crouched down to move aside the screen. He stacked several more logs onto the fire, soaking in the warmth, before turning to Dean. His brother had laid back down on the bed.

It was the only bed in the small cabin. They’d been taking turns pretending to sleep on it so they didn’t have to be too close to each other.

Sam walked over to their bags and dug a couple clean shirts and boxers out of Dean’s and a pair of sweats from his own. He set them on the floor beside the bed so Dean wouldn’t have to scrounge around in the morning when he woke up and realized he wasn’t wearing anything.

He pulled the heavy curtains closed with the hope that Dean would sleep past the rising of the sun. They weren't going anywhere tomorrow. Peeking beneath the curtains, he checked to make sure the salt line hadn’t been disturbed then laid a fresh one in front of the door before twisting the deadbolt.

He glanced to the moth-eaten corner chair he’d slept in last night, but continued back to the bed. He slipped off his boots and settled down on top of the covers beside Dean. His brother made a quiet sound and Sam realized Dean had already fallen asleep. Sam gave a huff of disbelief, but smiled softly to himself as he settled down against the warmth of his brother.


End file.
